


Light As A Feather (Heavy As The Burden I Carry)

by CreativWit, Rose_SK



Series: Wit and Haven's Eskel Whump Dump [9]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anorexia, Body Dysmorphic Disorder, Distorted Body Perception, Eating Disorders, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emotionally Constipated Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel Has Self-Esteem Issues (The Witcher), Eskel Whump (The Witcher), Food aversion, Gen, Mild Sexual Content, POV Eskel (The Witcher), Parent Vesemir (The Witcher), Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Objectification, Thoughts of Self-harm, Winter at Kaer Morhen (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:15:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29858661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreativWit/pseuds/CreativWit, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_SK/pseuds/Rose_SK
Summary: His stomach makes itself known when Eskel catches a whiff of roast chicken as one of the guests steps outside with their plate of food. Eskel is quick to cover his middle with his hand, as if the action alone could muffle his body’s natural response to hunger. Eskel can’t remember the last time he ate.Eskel could certainly do with losing a couple of pounds anyway.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert, Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Vesemir, Eskel & Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel & Vesemir (The Witcher)
Series: Wit and Haven's Eskel Whump Dump [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2108274
Comments: 9
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovely people!
> 
> Two months ago, CreativWit and I started chatting on Discord and we came up with this very specific spitball where Eskel struggles with an eating disorder. We decided to collaborate and turn this spitball into a proper fic! We are both very excited to share this with you, but before you proceed we want to remind you please to heed the tags and warnings! We'll be adding them as we update the chapters, but if any of you notice a tag missing let us know and we'll add it. 
> 
> This fic will largely be based on CreativWit's and my own experiences with eating disorders. We're treating this fic essentially as free therapy. This fic is basically us projecting onto Eskel and whumping the hell out of him. Sorry, not sorry. 
> 
> For those of you who are still interested - welcome! Sit back, relax, and enjoy the first chapter!

Eskel doesn’t do parties. 

If it was up to him, Eskel would never attend another party ever again. Unfortunately, it seems that part of being a witcher nowadays means mingling, socialising and doing the whole song and dance that comes when one deals with the nobility. His most recent employer, Marquess Something of The-Back-End-Of-Nowhere, insisted that Eskel took part in the masquerade taking place at the Marquess’ estate after Eskel rid his lands of several ghoul nests. The witcher, ever the diplomat, politely declined the offer but the Marquess was nothing short of determined to have Eskel join the festivities.

“Master witcher, I  _ insist _ . Just one evening is all I ask. Help yourself to my food and one of my beds. Hell, help yourself to my servants as well, I’m sure one of the lasses will tickle your fancy. Come see me tomorrow for your payment and you’ll be on your way. I  _ insist _ , master witcher, I insist.”

The only reason Eskel resigned himself to his fate is because his employer won’t pay him the fee that Eskel is due until morning. Since he will have to wait for his coin anyway, might as well enjoy himself while he’s at it. Only, Eskel isn’t enjoying himself. For one, his social skills are beyond rusty and ridding the land of ghouls has tired him out. He barely has enough energy to stand upright, nevermind to actively interact with the other guests. Eskel also hates crowds, feeling more and more claustrophobic as the evening progresses. The stupid mask he is forced to wear for the occasion feels too tight around his face and irritates his scars. Eskel has two minds to tear the damned thing off his face, but he knows that the sight of his scars would probably attract the wrong kind of attention, so he soldiers through the uncomfortable sensation. 

Eskel declines a glass of wine, but even so the young maid lingers around for a chat. She’s pretty, Eskel thinks to himself, a sight for sore eyes with her fiery red locks, her emerald eyes at the freckles on her face. She, unlike the other guests, is not wearing a mask because servants don’t take part in the festivities. Eskel offers a polite smile as he only half-listens to the girl, noticing the way she flutters her long eyelashes at him and the pink tinge colouring her cheeks. The girl is probably no older than fifteen. Eskel averts his eyes at the thought. A  _ child _ . She’s only a child. 

“Girl! Stop bothering the handsome gentleman.” 

Another woman appears in Eskel’s line of vision, but before he has a chance to come to the girl’s defence, the servant mumbles a mortified apology and scutters away. The woman huffs indignantly at the girl’s audacity, then flicks her hair with an air of importance. She’s wearing a navy-blue mask in the shape of a fox, probably made from silk or velvet, and decorated with arabesques sewn into the expensive material with golden thread. Eskel’s own simple mask, black with very little flourish and the cheapest one he could find on such short notice, seemed impossibly bland in comparison. Eskel can only make out the stranger’s eyes - rich chocolate orbs - and her full lips painted red. Well that, and the impressive bosom which is nearly spilling out of her far too tight corset. Eskel makes a point not to stare, and in fact, he does his best not to make eye-contact at all in the hope that the woman will leave him alone. 

He doesn’t have much luck with that. 

“And who might you be, handsome stranger?” the woman asks in a low sultry voice that is clearly meant to sound seductive. 

“Isn’t the point of these parties to remain anonymous, my Lady?” Eskel knows he’s being bold - for all he knows, this woman could have friends in very high places who can make Eskel’s life a living hell if he’s not careful. Fortunately for him, the woman’s response is to let out an artificially crystalline laugh that doesn’t quite sit right with Eskel. 

“Oh my, handsome  _ and  _ mysterious. What a treat.”

Eskel feels the heat rise to his cheeks at being called handsome twice in the span of several minutes. He hasn’t been called handsome very often since he got his scars. Before that, admittedly, Eskel guesses that he could have passed as an attractive man, though he personally never saw the appeal. Even without the facial scars, people would still step away in fear at the sight of his freakish eyes or the swords strapped to his back. And even on those rare occasions where Eskel had paid for whores, even though he had done his very best to make the experience pleasurable for them, he could still pick up on the underlying smell of fear at his touch. 

Eskel is so unaccustomed to being called handsome anymore that he’s stunned into silence when this stranger deigns to compliment him in this fashion. 

“And, as it appears, humble as well. Oh handsome stranger, I’m not letting you out of my sight tonight.” The woman trails her fingers over her bosom, almost enticing Eskel to look. He swallows thickly around the nervous lump forming in his throat. “Can I interest you in a bite to eat?”

Eskel looks over at the lavish table, around which a considerable crowd has already gathered. Eskel watches people fill their plates with all kinds of meats - venison, wild boar, pork, beef, pheasant. His nose also picks up the salty smell of roasted lobster, marinated shrimp, fried cod and haddock, and cullen skink. Next to the main courses are a whole array of side dishes; potatoes, vegetables, salads, bread rolls and other nibbles. A second, slightly smaller table, has been set up next to the main buffet and features all sorts of sweet-smelling deserts. Cakes, pies, biscuits, whipped cream, fresh fruit, sweet sauces, honeycomb and all sorts of sweet delights are displayed for the guests to feast on, both visually and gustatorially. A feast fit for kings, and yet Eskel’s own appetite fails him.

He declines the offer tactfully, keeping his voice soft and pleasant. “Thank you for your generous offer, my Lady, but I already ate earlier today.”

This, of course, is a lie. Eskel can’t remember the last time he ate a meal that didn’t consist of berries and meat scraps. 

“Oh, of course,” the woman agrees, her chocolate brown eyes sparkling with mischief, “a man such as yourself probably sticks to a very strict dietary regimen.”

“My trade demands it,” Eskel offers a simple explanation, but before he can swiftly move on from that conversation, he feels the woman’s hand squeeze his bicep probingly, her pupils dilating at the firmness she finds there. Eskel resists the urge to push her away. Her fingers linger on his arm for a while before trailing up to his bicep, then down again along his narrowing waist.

“Forgive me my brazenness, handsome stranger, but curiosity got the better of me. You truly are as strong as you look. And so  _ good-looking _ .”

Eskel wants to tell her that there’s nothing good-looking about the scars marring his body - not just the ones on his face, though admittedly those ones are hard to miss. Eskel can’t think of a single spot on him that isn’t covered in scars. Some are more impressive than others, but all of them ugly in their own right. 

“My Lady is too generous with her praise.”

Those are the first honest words that leave Eskel’s mouth since the start of the evening. 

“And you, my darling, are too harsh on yourself. Besides, it’s refreshing to talk to a man who isn’t constantly stuffing his face with food. Look at them,” the woman motions at the crowd gathered around the buffet, “eating like there’s no tomorrow, getting fatter by the day. Like they’re not fat enough while there’s children out there who go hungry because of this dreadful war.”

Eskel strongly believes that the woman’s moral stance is not as genuine as she will have him believe. 

“They’re enjoying themselves. Nothing wrong with that.” Eskel scans the room for an escape, which he finds in the form of an open balcony door. If he moves quickly enough, he can disappear without the woman noticing he’s gone. Before he can put his plan into action, Eskel feels the woman’s hand on his unscarred cheek and he freezes. Her eyes meet his as her fingers gently trace the edge of his mask. 

“I want to see your face,” she whispers to him, her bosom heaving suggestively as she does so. Before she manages to expose him, Eskel steps away as softly as he knows how. He flashes the woman a secretive smile. 

“Not yet, my Lady. This isn’t how the game works.”

Thankfully, the woman doesn’t take offence at his words or actions, instead mirroring his smile and blowing him a kiss. She doesn’t follow him as Eskel steps onto the balcony, and he can’t quite explain the feeling of relief that washes over him at the realisation. Now would be the perfect time to take off his mask, but Eskel finds that the anonymity it provides gives him a sense of security after all. He keeps it on, at least for the time being. Eskel hears the sound of laughter and general merriment coming from inside and he has two minds to slam the balcony door behind him, go find Scorpion and flee these lands never to return again. The only reason he doesn’t is because he’s literally penniless and he needs the Marquess to pay up so Eskel can buy supplies on his way to Kaer Morhen for the winter. 

Just because Eskel hates parties doesn’t mean his brothers have to go hungry. 

This past year has been hard on Eskel. He could sense a war brewing in the North, spurted on by Nilfgaard’s own self-interest in various northern regions. War means that while the rich get richer, they also get stingier with their money in anticipation of the hardship they know will soon befall their regions. The poor, however, often get poorer and when these people happen to need a witcher, well, matters of payment get trickier. Eskel has lost count of how many times he worked a contract for nearly nothing, even for free at times, because he couldn’t bear the sight of a mother’s tears or couldn’t refuse a grieving father’s plea to avenge his son and make sure the cockatrice never hurts anyone ever again. 

Eskel is usually good at managing his finances on the Path. Unlike Lambert, who tends to lose a whole contract’s earnings in one night while playing Gwent (or double it, depending on his luck), it is not unlikely for Eskel to return to Kaer Morhen at the start of winter with coin to spare. This year is different. Eskel has had a terrible year and the Marquess’ money is a necessity at this point. Eskel takes a deep breath through the nose and exhales loudly, as a way to ground himself. 

He can’t wait to get home. 

His stomach makes itself known when Eskel catches a whiff of roast chicken as one of the guests steps outside with their plate of food. Eskel is quick to cover his middle with his hand, as if the action alone could muffle his body’s natural response to hunger. Eskel can’t remember the last time he ate. The little coin he managed to save up had gone towards a new saddle, repairs on his armour and swords, and making sure Scorpion could feast on as many oats as his heart desired whenever Eskel stopped in a big enough town. Scorpion needs the sustenance more than his owner does. Without his faithful stallion, Eskel would probably not make it back to Kaer Morhen before the snow blocks off the mountain trail. Besides, Scorpion is the best horse Eskel has ever owned, so he deserves to be spoilt to death even if it means that Eskel has to go several days without eating. 

Eskel could certainly do with losing a couple of pounds anyway.

Eskel has always been bigger than the average person thanks to the mutagen, but he’s also always been larger than most of the other witchers he’s known over the years. Geralt and Lambert, his brothers, were both much more slender. Even as a child, Eskel was the biggest and heaviest boy in his group at Kaer Morhen. Eskel’s hill-folk origins were always most noticeable in his broad shoulders, his height and his sturdier build. Children can be cruel, or so the saying goes, and Eskel experienced this first hand when the other boys in his class started taunting him for the way he looked.  _ Too slow. Too soft. Too jiggly.  _ Eskel trained harder to prove himself to them, to show everyone that he had what it took to become a witcher, but the jeers kept coming and Eskel realised that the best policy was to simply ignore them. 

At that point, the damage to his mind had already been done.

The other boys in his group, Geralt included, grew  _ into  _ their bodies. Eskel, on the other hand, could never quite shake the layer of puppy fat and had to work twice as hard to keep up with the other boys in terms of speed and agility. After the first round of Trials, Eskel’s signs became the strongest in the entire keep. The boys who used to pick on Eskel’s appearance stopped now that Eskel was able to overpower them with a simple flick of the hand. He also grew stronger, often forfeiting speed for brute force, and established himself as one of the most promising young witchers. Now, Eskel is probably at the slimmest he’s ever been, thanks to an especially bad year. His clothes were starting to feel a little too baggy, but Eskel certainly didn’t have the money to buy them new and not enough sewing skills to take them in himself. He will just have to wait until he’s back at the keep and hope that Vesemir can help. 

Eskel is at the slimmest he’s ever been and he  _ likes  _ it that way. He’s faster than he used to be without the additional body mass weighing him down. He feels more in line with what a witcher is supposed to look like, in his experience. He doesn’t feel as intimidating anymore. People used to stink of fear and anxiety whenever he approached them, even if he always did his best to keep his voice soft and friendly. Eskel didn’t like people cowering away from him in fear. He would never hurt innocent people, and much less use his strength to coerce people into doing his bidding. Recently, on those rare occasions when Eskel would spend some coin on a whore for the night, he would preen at the compliments he received.  _ Your body looks good, sugar… how handsome… what a figure…  _ Being complimented on his slim yet muscular physique by the mysterious fox-lady tonight only drives the point home that people, society, like him better this way. 

Eskel also knows that he’ll put on five pounds if he just looks at a cream pastry for too long, so it’s just easier not to eat at all. He could probably  _ still  _ stand to lose a couple more pounds. The notion that a witcher should be concerned about his physique is ridiculous at best, if not downright laughable. Losing weight won’t change the fact that Eskel is a freak feared by humans and non-humans alike. Losing weight won’t change the fact that Eskel is a witcher, a  _ mutant _ , with nothing to offer anyone other than his friendship. Losing weight won’t change the fact that witchers are still seen to be solitary, emotionless killers only marginally more favourable than the monsters they kill. 

Losing weight won’t change any of that, but it certainly can’t hurt. 

“There you are again,” a now familiar voice speaks to him, pulling him out of his spiralling thoughts. Eskel looks over to find the woman in the fox-mask staring at him with a soft smile curling the corner of her lip. “You ran away from me earlier.”

“I needed some fresh air, my Lady,” Eskel admits. She nods her understanding, but otherwise doesn’t comment on his sudden disappearance. If she’s displeased with him she has yet to show it. 

“I brought you some food,” she tells him and hands over a plate filled with… a very specific choice of different foods. Asparagus, artichokes, figs, oysters and strawberries. Eskel raises an eyebrow at her, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Her chocolate brown eyes sparkle with unbridled mischief. 

“Interesting selection,” he then adds, “but you didn’t have to go through all that trouble.”

“And what trouble would that be, handsome stranger?” She plays coy, but the growing smile tells Eskel that the woman knows exactly what she’s doing by handing him over a plate of aphrodisiacs. 

“I told you, I already ate.”

“What if I told you that I seek to satisfy a different kind of hunger?” 

Eskel pauses at those words. Her intentions were clear as day before, but she seemingly grows more desperate in the face of Eskel’s dismissal. Eskel didn’t plan on falling into bed with anyone tonight. All he really wants is to leave this place with his coin as soon as he’s physically able to. Then again, who knows when he’ll be offered another opportunity to wet his dick with a woman who doesn’t expect him to hand over money after he spends himself? With a face like his, you take whatever is readily available to you, and what this stranger is offering is too good to pass up.

“Your room or mine?”

The food on the plate remains untouched as Eskel lets the woman lead him away from the crowd to somewhere more private.

__________

Eskel and the masked woman don't make it to her room. As soon as they exit the main hall where the festivities are taking place, it doesn't take long for her to press Eskel against a nearby wall and stand on her tiptoes to capture his lips in a heated kiss. Her hands are everywhere at once - his shoulders first, then his biceps, then his pecks, then his waist, his defined abdomen. Her hand lingers there and a small moan pushes past her lips as she feels the firmness of Eskel's muscles. Meanwhile, Eskel doesn't quite know what to do with his own hands, so he keeps them situated on her hips. She's so slender he can almost completely encase her waist in his hands. The masked stranger pulls away from his lips with an obscene wet noise. She catches his lower lip between her teeth and bites, pulling a groan from Eskel. He doesn’t think he wants rough just now, but he’ll take whatever she’s willing to give at this point. 

“I think we should take our masks off,” she breathes between them. Eskel catches a whiff of her sweet perfume and the smell is almost intoxicating. 

“Should I remind you the point of this masquerade?” 

The masked stranger’s hand resting on his abdomen travels lower until she’s gently tracing the waistband of Eskel’s trousers. He hisses in a sharp breath as his cock stirs in interest. The woman’s voice is barely above a whisper when she answers:   
  
“If I'm going to unveil the mystery under these clothes, I should be allowed to see the mystery under the mask.”

“Not every mystery is worth uncovering.”

The woman pauses, though her hands still tease the ties of Eskel’s trousers. She pulls at the shirt which Eskel had so carefully tucked into his britches and slides her hand up the firm expanse of skin, tracing every dip and ridge of Eskel’s abs, her eyes blown wide with lust. Eskel shivers at the light touch and flinches when those nimble fingers stutter over one of his more noticeable scars. 

“Isn’t that for me to decide whether I want to uncover this particular mystery?”

Eskel bites back the comment sitting on the tip of his tongue, something about it also being  _ his _ decision whether he shows his face or not. Instead, Eskel leans down and kisses her languorously, taking his time. She melts against him and digs her nails into his stomach. They kiss for another while before the woman decides to pull away from Eskel. The sudden loss causes Eskel to open his eyes. He watches as she removes her mask to reveal a face as pretty as Eskel imagined it would be, with elegant cheekbones, freckles and long dark eyelashes. 

“Like what you see?”

“I do,” Eskel admits, unable to deny it. The woman smiles, revealing charming dimples. 

“Now that I’ve uncovered my identity, it is only fair that you do the same, don’t you think, handsome stranger?”

Her hands, which until now have been exploring the expanse of his abdomen, are now trailing up his arms, biceps and shoulders, before cupping his cheeks and meeting his gaze. Up close, Eskel can guess the beginning of wrinkles forming at the edges of the woman’s eyes, strategically covered up with make-up but betraying her mature age nonetheless. Eskel has two minds to stop her, but he’s so tired of hiding behind a mask. He allows her to slide her delicate fingers under his mask, pushing it off his face and revealing the scars underneath. Eskel closes his eyes in anticipation of her inevitable outburst, unable to look her in the eye as she stares at him with disgust and  _ fear _ , but deep down hoping that she won’t mind all that much. 

Eskel hears her stagger backwards as well as the way her heart beats faster as she unravels the mystery that is Eskel. Anticlimactic as far as reveals go, Eskel thinks cynically. He opens his eyes eventually and sees the woman pressed with her back against the opposite wall, one hand covering her mouth and eyes widening at the sight of his face. 

“Oh…,” is all she is able to say for a while, “ _ oh _ , I… I guess you were right about one thing. Some mysteries are better left covered up. I just thought with a body like yours…”

She trails off, biting the inside of her cheek as if to stem the flow of nasty words about to fall from her lips, but Eskel can guess her meaning nonetheless.

“I guess mother was right when she said that there’s a monster hiding in all of us.”

__________

Eskel collects his coin from the Marquess the next morning and reunites with Scorpion in the morning. He declines the Marquess’ invitation to join him for a quick breakfast. Eskel’s appetite has completely forsaken him. His stallion is glad to see him - at least someone is, Eskel thinks bitterly as he feeds his horse a cube of sugar for his trouble. Scorpion nudges Eskel’s chest with his long head, nickering softly as if sensing his owner’s inner turmoil. Scorpion has always been smarter than the average horse. Eskel tacks him up and is on his way before midday. 

His stomach rumbles stubbornly at him, but Eskel ignores his own hunger. The coin he earned on his last contract will have to last until he reaches Ard Carraigh, where he will buy supplies for the winter. If he presses Scorpion, he can reach the city in a week’s time. 

Eskel can’t wait to go home. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pain disappears after the growl ends, leaving behind a blissful void in his stomach that is much preferred over the constant ache of starvation. His vision swims, and his body feels a little too light. It almost seems like he’s not within himself, an outsider looking at the pathetic sight he’s sure he is. Eventually, Eskel settles, groggily blinking away the dark spots in his sight.
> 
> At least he’s not hungry anymore. Small mercies, he supposes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! If you guys enjoyed the first chapter, hopefully, you'll enjoy this one, too! Things start to pick up a little after this, so keep an eye out for that.
> 
> _But,_ knowing that, I'd like to reiterate that if this gets too triggering at any time, Haven and I encourage you to break away from this.
> 
> _**Your mental health, safety, life, and comfort are worth more than a story.** _
> 
> **Relevant Triggers for this Chapter:** self-esteem issues, thoughts of self-harm, distorted body perception, ogling, food aversion, and sexual objectification.   
> _If you think I missed any, I urge you to please let me know._

Winter can be cruel, unfairly so. Freezing winds and unbearable icy paths hinder Eskel with every step he takes. He long since clambered off of Scorpion, taking his steed’s reins into his hands and leading him on through the frigid night. More than once, he thought about camping, starting a fire and warming up, but sitting around means doing nothing, and nothingness only invites emptiness these days.

Ard Carraigh isn’t far. He suspects he will be there in about a day or so. Less than a week has passed since the masquerade, and the words the Lady spoke still haunt him. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before – live as long as he has, and words become nothing but background noise – but something about them cuts deep. Eskel hates it almost as much as he hates the incessant gnawing in his gut. After days of not feeding it, Eskel hopes it will get the hint, but his stomach growls loudly, sounding more like a werewolf than an internal organ, complaining about the lack of food.

Suck it up, Eskel thinks, eating isn’t the main priority right now.

His focus remains splintered between the trail ahead and the horse beside him. Eskel has done his best to keep Scorpion well-fed and warm, but, unfortunately, not even Eskel could stop nature. Scorpion keeps his head up and trudges strongly through the encroaching blizzard. They’ll make it before the pass closes to Kaer Morhen, but it will be a near thing. Before they head up, Eskel will stop in Ard Carraigh, hunker down for a night in the inn and let Scorpion rest before daring the trek up the Witchers’ Trail. Will he enjoy it? No, but some matters are more important than small comforts.

His stomach growls again, and Eskel places a hand over his stomach. It’s a useless tactic, but his fingers dig into the skin anyway. He grips himself tightly as if the pressure will halt the noise when it starts. Through that one action alone, Eskel notes a thousand reasons why he can’t indulge in the spare fruits and meats sitting in Scorpion’s pack.

His body has slimmed down considerably over the year, and Eskel can’t be more pleased about it. Never has he been a small target, but the last contract he took before the masquerade proved that the weight loss is more beneficial than the blatant aesthetics. He moves lighter now, quicker on his feet and agile. Gone are the clumsy maneuvers, the stock-still grounding tactics he used to perform. Once, Vesemir likened him to something of a tree, unyielding and sturdy in his defense. At the time, Eskel remembered pride settling in his chest. Now, he sees the comment for what it really was. Wolves aren’t made to be trees. That’s something best left to the Bears. No, he’s supposed to be faster than that, nimble and quick. One look at Eskel screams nothing remotely similar to “nimble.”

All he feels through his armour and underclothes is softness. He hates the feeling of it. The softer he is, the heavier he is. Puppy fat means exactly that. _Puppy_ fat. Eskel isn't a puppy anymore, no matter what Vesemir calls him, and it's not cute to carry around that extra layer of blubber. It weighs him down, an unnecessary addition to his structure. The added layer of fat serves as a protection layer, if he recalls the old medical tomes correctly. Eskel doesn’t need protection; he just needs to be better. Improvement comes with change, and Eskel has embraced change. The results he’s gotten from simply resigning himself to the shortage of food have done more for him than any workout he’s ever adopted during winters at Kaer Morhen. 

He thinks that’s what he dreads the most about returning home. Of course, he’s thrilled to walk through the gates every year. Nothing compares to the joy and relief of seeing his brothers alive and well. Still, Vesemir tends to have this infatuation with stuffing his pups for as long as he has them during the winter months. He doesn’t spoil them - no, they get teased enough for that - but portions are much larger than they’ll ever receive on the Path. Again, small comforts Eskel cannot afford. He should come up with excuses now, figure out ways to remove himself from future problems, but the wind is starting to howl, and Eskel is starting to falter.

Scorpion whinnies next to him, tossing his head in annoyance as he shakes off the dusting of snow wetting his mane. Eskel tilts himself away from the spray, a small smile gracing his lips as he gives a quiet laugh.

“Really, Scorp?” Eskel asks, grinning as Scorpion huffs, the cloud of hot breath puffing out around the stallion’s nose. “I thought you were a knight’s horse. Where’s the chivalry?”

Scorpion turns his head slightly to fix Eskel with what appeared to be something akin to a deadpan stare. Had Eskel been a lesser man, he probably would have been startled at the sight of an expression so humanistic on a horse, but Eskel has grown far too accustomed to Scorpion’s mannerisms to let this one faze him.

“Ah, don’t look at me that,” Eskel replies, running a hand down Scorpion’s mane. “I treat you like the princess you are.”

Scorpion bumps his head against Eskel’s chest in retaliation for that remark, sending the sturdy witcher a few steps back. Eskel pauses, blinks in surprise, then recovers. 

“Okay, fine. Handsome prince. Handsome, _strong_ prince. Does that suit your fancy?”

Raising his head up proudly, Scorpion picks up the pace as much as he can with Eskel still holding his reins. Eskel squawks in protest, but his smile never fades as he strides to keep up with his horse. For a moment, his steps fumble. His legs wobble as he takes a particularly quick step forward, but he closes his eyes and shakes his head before continuing on.

“You know, sometimes I wonder who’s in charge here. Got a feeling it ain’t me.”

Scorpion neighs, ignoring Eskel completely for a few moments before craning his neck and bumping Eskel’s unscarred cheek gently. Eskel can’t help but laugh, burying his face into Scorpion’s neck for a couple of seconds, relishing in the warmth against his freezing skin. He places a kiss on Scorpion’s nose as he pulls away.

“Aw, I love you, too, bud. Now, c’mon. I know it’s late, but Ard Carraigh isn’t far now.”

Scorpion nudges him again, stopping in place and stamping his hooves impatiently. Eskel raises an eyebrow at the small tantrum, taking a moment to figure out what his stallion is trying to tell him. It’s only when Scorpion shuffles closer to him with a knowing look that Eskel understands.

Eskel rolls his eyes, grabbing hold of the pommel and swinging his leg over. He settles into his seat slowly, arms quivering with the strain. He huffs and gathers Scorpion's reins more firmly, quelling the tremors and preparing to lead his stallion through the dark. 

"Alright, Scorp. Let's go."

They progress slowly, mindful of the needle ice protruding from the ground. Most days, Eskel can admire the beauty of winter, but the appeal never lasts long. The frigid weather and howling winds always dampen the mood, bringing misery and despair in its wake. What does it say about this year if Eskel is already miserable and desperate? He sighs heavily, hot breath billowing from his mouth as the cold air dries his dehydrated throat further. Eskel rolls his shoulders back, tilts his aching head side to side to stretch his neck, and settles in for the long haul. Ard Carraigh is no more than a day away at this rate. He can make it. He’ll beat the blizzard. He hopes his brothers will, too, if they’re around to. 

He shakes the morbid thought from his mind. No sense in wallowing over “what if” scenarios. Worrying only serves to make him nauseous, and he experiences enough of that on his own. As if to join the internal conversation, his stomach suddenly clenches in pain. Eskel grunts, gritting his teeth as he waits for the hunger pang to pass. A couple of seconds and then it will be gone again, just as it always did. 

It doesn’t take a few seconds. It takes minutes. Eskel hunches over on Scorpion, bringing the horse to a halt and clutching his midsection. The pain gnaws away at him, a sharp and throbbing thing, persistent despite Eskel’s best efforts to quell it. After long moments of pain stronger than the hunger pangs before it, Eskel’s stomach releases one last loud growl, one that stretches for almost six seconds, steadily increasing in volume and dragging the agony up with it. By the time it stops, Eskel’s heaving gasps disturb the night. The pain disappears after the growl ends, leaving behind a blissful void in his stomach that is much preferred over the constant ache of starvation. His vision swims, and his body feels a little too light. It almost seems like he’s not within himself, an outsider looking at the pathetic sight he’s sure he is. Eventually, Eskel settles, groggily blinking away the dark spots in his sight.

At least he’s not hungry anymore. Small mercies, he supposes.

Scorpion flicks his ear, clearly unamused by the past events. Eskel clears his throat and urges Scorpion on without a further word. He would be more concerned if he still felt pain, but the aching has disappeared. There’s nothing to worry about. He’s fine. If anything, he’s proud. He’s lasted this far. Surely he can last a little longer, right?

__________

Arriving at Ard Carraigh is as much a blessing as it is a curse. Now that he’s finally here, Eskel can grab all the supplies he needs to bring up for the winter, and Scorpion can grab the rest he deserves. The sun hovers between the mountain peaks of Morhen Valley, still early dawn. Having pushed through the day before and the entire night, exhaustion wears down on Eskel’s shoulders. He climbs off of Scorpion, giving his horse a gentle caress down his neck before guiding them to the nearest inn. 

Sure enough, Ivan is awake and waiting when Eskel walks in.

“Ah, was wonderin’ when ya’d show up,” the old innkeeper greets, idly wiping down dishes behind the bar. Eskel absently notes the complete loss of hair. Ivan had been balding when Eskel came down at the end of last winter. He must’ve decided to rush the inevitable.

“Got a room?” Eskel asks, voice gruff and hoarse. He wishes he could blame disuse, but he used it far too often these past couple days while talking to Scorpion. No, it has more to do with the fact that he feels like he’s consuming glass each time he swallows. 

“Same one as always.” Ivan lifts his gaze, eyes narrowing when he sets his sights on Eskel’s cloaked form. “Huh. Ya doin’ somethin’ diff’rent?”

Eskel reaches out, taking the key from Ivan when the old man offers it. “What are you talking about?”

“Ya look diff’rent is all.”

“So you’ve said,” Eskel grunts, pocketing the key and shifting the bags on his shoulders. Have they always been this heavy?

Ivan rolls his eyes. For as familiar as they are with one another, Ivan and the witchers have an acquaintanceship at best, a mutual respect at worst. Ivan provides shelter for the witchers before they head up for the winter and after they come down. In return, the witchers complete a few maintenance tasks Ivan’s older body can’t perform anymore. All in all, their relationship isn’t quite the friendliest, so Eskel’s not exactly sure why Ivan decides to entertain the conversation further.

“Whatever. Ya look good. Better than last year.” Ivan chuckles, resuming his task in cleaning off the dishes before breakfast. “Really let ya’self go last winter, huh? Musta been hard ta get back inta shape.”

Eskel tenses, his grip on the handle of his bags tightening until his knuckles turn white. So Ivan noticed, too. Why hadn’t his brothers said anything? How could they and Vesemir just let him pig out all winter, becoming a disgusting and fat mess? It’s like they _wanted_ Eskel to embarrass himself and have successfully done so for decades. At least he’s better now. Like Ivan said, he looks _good._ Even if his face is still torn to shreds, the Lady at the masquerade had been right: he looks better this way.

“It was a process,” Eskel grits out, teeth clenched as he fights back the words he wants to say. For as much as Eskel appreciates the compliment, he doesn’t appreciate the insinuation that followed. Ivan doesn’t know what happens in Kaer Morhen; he has no right to judge what Eskel does or does not do up there. Still, Ivan hosts his family, too. If Eskel places the wrong foot forward, he risks a rare safe space for Geralt, Lambert, and Vesemir. It’s simply not fair of him to be selfish over one measly comment.

“I’d bet. Head on up, witcher. Ya look like Lilit Herself had Her way with ya.”

“Thought you said I looked good.”

Ivan snorts derisively, seeming far too amused than Eskel thought he had any right being. “Don’t let it get ta ya head, Eskel. Ya still got a long ways ta go before ya become a _real_ stud for the ladies.”

A shiver runs down Eskel’s spine at the image those words conjure up, but he clamps down on the feeling. Ivan’s offering him an out; Eskel’s going to take it.

“Thanks, Ivan.” The words choke him on their way out, not at all the words Eskel wants to say. Ivan pays no mind.

“Whatever. Just be ready before afternoon. I got a list.”

Eskel doesn’t comment. He trudges up the stairs, his footsteps light on the creaky wooden floorboards. Eskel nearly preens at that. Better than the clomping footsteps he once had. Lambert used to call him “a bastard child of a giant.” He wonders briefly if Lambert will continue to say it once he reaches the keep. 

That thought brings another to mind as he sets his bags down on his bed, locking the door behind him. Both the nobles at the masquerade and Ivan claimed Eskel looks better, good, _handsome._ What will his family say when they see him? Will they be just as proud? Will they think he looks attractive this way, too? Eskel genuinely hopes so. For as much as he enjoys hearing the flattery from strangers, he seeks his family’s praises more. Too many winters have passed by without much more than a hug at the beginning of winter and another hug when they depart in spring. Maybe this will finally close the gap between him, his brothers, and Vesemir.

Now that he considers it, had they simply seen him as too revolting to touch? Do they abhor his softness as much as he does? His body trembles at the thought, a shiver of disgust running through him as he places a hand over his belly. If he presses hard enough, he can feel through his armour. It’s not enough. He sheds his clothes, practically tossing them onto his bed until he wears nothing but his braies. Against his better judgment, he turns to the mirror, and his heart stops at what he sees.

A layer of fat lingers over his abs, drooping over the waistband of his braies. He places a tentative hand to it, watching in the mirror as he’s able to scoop up the excess flab. It pours through the gaps between his fingers like a gelatinous dessert. His stomach turns at the sight. Revolted, Eskel squeezes his paunch, entertaining the insane thought of ripping it off and being done with it. He wants to burn away the fat with a well-cast Igni. Anything to make that potbelly disappear. The others had said he’d slimmed down, but it certainly doesn’t seem like it.

Eskel twists away from the mirror, trying hard not to think about how his belly jiggles with the movement. He quickly dons his armour once more and leaves without a wink of rest. He can’t sleep now, not when he has the memory of his fat bouncing with every step he takes. He all but bursts into the taproom, Ivan’s eyebrows shooting up at his sudden appearance.

Eskel scowls. “What did you need done?”

__________

Scorpion trails lazily after Eskel, having made the best of his hours of rest. After helping Ivan repair a few things in the tavern and chopping wood for the inn’s fireplaces, Eskel continued to run a few morning errands for himself before coming back for Scorpion. They picked up the cart waiting for them in Ivan’s stables. Not only did the man give the witchers a free room for two nights of the year, but he also let them keep their supply carts in his stables until they returned for the winter. Now that Eskel has the cart, errands should go by faster.

As time passes, the roads start to spark with life, people entering the market after going through their morning routines at home. Eskel tries to make his errands quick, but some things can’t be rushed, especially when things go awry.

“What do you mean the price is different? It’s the same order as always!” Eskel asks, furrowing his eyebrows in annoyance.

The butcher shrugs, a bored expression on his face. “Don’t know what you want me to tell you. Times are rough.”

Eskel takes a deep breath, reigning in his gathering anger. “Fine. Just hand it over.”

“I don’t like your attitude,” the butcher sneers, waving his cleaver around as if Eskel should be scared of it. 

“Trust me, I don’t give a shit.”

Eskel storms out of the butcher’s shop, scowling as he makes his way back to Scorpion. Truthfully, he’s less annoyed than he is nervous. As more people spill onto the streets, Eskel’s nerves bristle with the irritating feeling of being _watched_. Rationally, he knows people are more than used to the witchers coming through their town, but he can’t help but feel like some people are taking more than their fill.

Gently stroking Scorpion’s mane, Eskel glances over at the supply cart. With the meats from the butcher, it’s nearly full with everything he needs to provide for the winter. As far as Eskel’s concerned, Geralt handles the feed for the livestock and animals, as well as the majority of their armoury equipment. Lambert grabs materials necessary for repairing the keep itself and smaller foods like fruits and vegetables. Eskel still has to pick up the medicinal herbs from the healer. At least the healer was always kind to him.

Eskel enters Winifred’s hut, knocking lightly on the door. The young lass whips around from where she’s restocking her cabinets, a bright smile crossing her face at the sight of him. 

“Ah! Eskel! It’s so nice to-!” Winifred cuts herself off, her eyes widening at the sight of him. Her mouth opens and closes for a moment, words failing her. “I, um, you look...different.”

Eskel huffs, averting his eyes. What else did he expect? As a healer, Winifred knows what unhealthy looks like, and clearly, it’s Eskel. “Yeah, you’re not the first to say that.”

“No, I mean, you look...really good.” When Eskel glances back at her, he nearly steps back at the blown pupils and the lascivious way she licks her lips. Her gaze lingers around his arms before drifting to his chest then lower...and lower. 

“Uh, thanks, Winnie,” Eskel stammers out, heart clenching at the sudden scent of arousal drifting in the room. He clears his throat. “Did Vesemir give you a list?”

Winnie blinks, momentarily startled before sending him another smile. Eskel’s stomach churns at the flirty expression. “Right, yes, of course. I have it behind the counter. Just a moment.”

She makes her way to the counter, and Eskel is almost embarrassed when he takes note of her hips swaying. He looks away, only to catch his reflection in the mirror Winnie has on her wall. Eskel flinches, grateful Winnie’s back is to him, only to pause and stare. His armour hangs loosely around his abdomen, and his britches sag around his hips. He can’t tear his eyes away as he grabs the hem of his shirt and tucks it more securely into his pants, hoping to fill the empty space between his hips and the material enough that his blatant state of indecency isn’t too noticeable. 

So that’s what Winnie was looking at…

“Here you go!”

Eskel snaps his attention back to Winnie, whose eyes are still too low to stare at his face. He nearly blushes at the constant attention, resisting the urge to shift uncomfortably. Winnie hands him two heavy, wrapped packages. He doesn’t miss the way her fingers purposely touch his.

“Thanks, Winnie,” he replies, trying to sound as sincere as possible without grimacing at her touch.

“No problem, Eskel,” she says, smiling as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “See you at the end of winter?”

“Uh, yeah. Definitely.” Eskel nods his goodbye, dropping the last of his coin into her hand before hurrying out of the hut and to Scorpion’s cart. He dumps the packages on top of the meats and heaves a deep breath. He can almost feel Winnie’s eyes boring into him from out here. 

Eskel clicks his tongue, and Scorpion falls into a steady trot beside him as they make their way out of town. Once Ard Carraigh is behind him, he reaches into Scorpion’s saddlebags and pulls out the last apple. He holds it out to his horse, only for Scorpion to nudge his hand back towards him. Eskel grins at the implication.

“Nah. I’m all good, handsome. This one’s for you. You earned it.”

Even so, Eskel’s stomach growls as the sound of Scorpion munching on the juicy fruit fills his ears. The pain has returned, gnawing at his gut incessantly. Eskel rests a hand over it, frowning at the reappearance of aggravating and nauseating noises. The smell of the apple wafts in the air, and Eskel nearly goes dizzy with the way his stomach growls louder at the tantalizing scent. Eskel shakes his head, takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. Eating isn’t a priority, not when the looming challenge of the Witchers’ Trail appears before him.


End file.
